VPLA 2023
The Signal Line

Title: The Signal Line

Author: Brendan Colley

Publisher: Transit Lounge

Brothers Geo and Wes are testing their relationship now that their parents have passed away. Geo and Wes rarely agree on anything, especially not the sale of the Hobart family home. Geo needs the money to finance his musical career in Italy. For Wes the house represents the memory of their father, and what it means to live an honest, working life.

But then a ghost train appears in Hobart, often on the tram tracks that once existed, along with the Swedish man who has been pursuing it for 40 years.

Everyone it seems is chasing their dreams. Or are they running from the truth?

The Signal Line is a warm-hearted, unforgettable novel about what we are all searching for, even when our personal dreams and aspirations have collapsed: love and acceptance.

Judges’ report

Assured and immersive, Brendan Colley’s The Signal Line is an utterly original metaphysical ghost story that takes the reader by the hand and pulls them along from beginning to end. With clean prose, magical realism blends seamlessly into a modern Tasmanian setting resulting in a delightful suspension of disbelief. Deftly drawn, eccentric and nuanced characters hunt the elusive ghost train; their fraught relationships and shared ambitions singing on the page, as they navigate competing desires for personal success and the lure of attachment. Striving and yearning for connection are at the heart of this surprising joy of a story.

Extract

Chapter One

As it happened, I arrived in Tasmania on the same night as the ghost train.

In the airport I scanned the crowd for my brother, regretting my acceptance of his offer to pick me up. Around me passengers peeled off into different parts of the terminal. I spotted Wes across the floor, his eyes fixed on me as he spoke on his phone. My heart sank. His creased suit and bloodshot eyes, from drink and lack of sleep, told me everything.

I trudged over with a small bag of belongings in one hand, and my most valuable possession in the other. When my mother had gifted me her viola for my thirteenth birthday, even my father had been surprised. Seventeen years on, it was more than an instrument for my dreams; it contained every important memory I had of her.

Wes’s voice rose an octave as I neared him. ‘Rome? Bullshit.’

I crouched down and fished my mobile from my bag.

‘Who’s the psych doctor on duty? Tell Martin I’ve got a translator.’ Wes glanced down at me.

I felt a prickle of irritation. Our ten-year age gap may have meant something when I was living in Hobart, but we weren’t going to pick up from where we left off.

‘And tell him to tell Alice. I don’t want a scene when I arrive. I’ll front up to Henry in the morning – this is on me.’

I started a text message to Alessia, saying it was all a mistake, that within a minute of being back I was reminded of why I’d left.

‘Yeah, fluent,’ Wes said.

But it wasn’t fair to worry her. Without Alessia I’d never have found the courage to return. I deleted the message.

Wes finished his call. ‘Let’s go.’

I grabbed my bag and viola, and followed him out. As the terminal doors swept open, we stepped into a tepid Tasmanian summer evening.

Wes led me over to an unmarked police car, parked out front, and went around to the driver’s side. ‘We have to swing by Royal Hobart Hospital,’ he said, resting an arm on the roof. ‘Marty’s got his hands full with a situation that’s about to blow.’

I slid my baggage onto the back seat. ‘Perfect. I’ll walk from there.’

‘We may need you for translation. You’re fluent, right?’

There was no way he was pulling me into this. ‘What are you talking about?’

‘A group of Italians got picked up at the old Hobart yard. Apparently they got off a train all panicked. Now Martin’s —’

‘Tassie doesn’t have passenger trains.’

‘No shit. Problem is, none of them speak English.’

An uncomfortable moment passed as we considered one another.

He raised a hand. ‘I’m in a spot here, Geo. Will you do this for me?’

Everything that followed happened because in that moment I forgot my reasons and baulked. ‘I don’t know … I’m scratchy.’

He pulled the magnetic siren off the car roof. ‘Scratchy will do just fine.’

#

Wes and I didn’t talk on the fifteen-minute drive from the airport, although that in itself wasn’t unusual. I sensed something was troubling him, and when we arrived at the Royal Hobart I waited back as he scanned the information board for Psychological Medicine. It was my first time at the hospital since Mum had passed, and I didn’t need a reminder that the oncology clinic for outpatients was on level one.

We found B Block on the ground floor and followed a sign down a narrow corridor to the Department of Psychiatry. The posters on the walls alerted us to the change in clinical environments. Warning: This is a Hospital Watch Area; NO EXCUSE FOR ABUSE; Verbal & Physical Abuse WILL NOT BE TOLERATED; If You Display Offensive Behaviour You Will Be Asked to Leave.

A policewoman stood guard outside the ward. She tensed when she saw us approaching.

‘Alice,’ Wes said with a small nod.

Her hand motioned towards the radio mic clipped to her shirt. ‘Martin’s inside with them. I’ve been told not to let anyone through.’

‘My brother just got in from Italy. We’re hoping he can help with translation.’

Alice’s gaze came to rest on me. I shifted uneasily.

‘That’s lucky,’ she said.

Wes ran a hand over stubble shot through with grey. In the fluorescent light I couldn’t tell if he’d just been on the job for a week or had completely stopped taking care of himself. In the three years I’d been away, it seemed my brother had aged a decade.

He was straining to see through the small window in the door. ‘Has anyone managed to communicate with them?’

‘They’ve been pretty hysterical since we picked them up. One’s heavily pregnant.’

Wes cleared his throat. ‘Alice … help me out here.’

In that moment, I understood. Alice’s instructions weren’t that nobody should be let through, but that Wes shouldn’t be let through. Embarrassed, I pulled my mobile from my pocket, searching for a distraction.

I glanced up to see Alice pushing open the door. ‘Be good, okay?’ she said to Wes. ‘Border Force arrived five minutes ago.’

Wes swept into the ward, and I hurried after him. Confidence had returned to his step now he was free to do his job.

When we turned into the unit’s processing area, I pulled up in surprise. The Italians were scattered about the room, their distressed chatter echoing off the walls. A handful sat in front-facing chairs, but the majority were gathered in small groups. The thing that struck me were the heavy coats, jackets, scarves and gloves. The youngest among them, the pregnant lady, sat alone.

On the opposite side of the room a doctor was in discussion with a uniformed man, ABF stamped across his shirt in yellow block letters: Australian Border Force. Standing with them was Martin Bowden, Wes’s partner and best mate since their general duty days.

A man in his sixties was speaking to a nurse a few feet from me and Wes. He held a fedora pressed to his chest. The nurse leaned in to catch his words but clearly didn’t understand anything he was saying.

Wes approached them and addressed the nurse. ‘I’m Detective Rosenberger. How many are there in the group?’

‘Twenty-seven,’ she said briskly.

‘And none speak any English?’

‘Not that we can tell. Communication’s limited to hand gestures and drawings.’

The din behind us grew louder.

‘Then why have they been brought to the psych ward?’ Wes asked, narrowing his eyes. ‘Maybe this is all just a misunderstanding.’

The nurse skewed a glance at the Italians huddled in the chairs. Her expression hardened. ‘It’s clear enough they’re trying to tell us they got here by train.’

‘You mean from Italy?’

She gave a curt nod.

About the author

Brendan Colley was born in South Africa. After graduating with a degree in education, he taught in the U.K. and Japan for eleven years before settling down in Australia in 2007. Winner of the University of Tasmania Prize for best new unpublished work in the 2019 Premier’s Literary Prizes, The Signal Line is his first novel. He lives in Hobart with his wife.